Where Outlaws Rule
by Lucas V. Moore
Summary: The story of the Mojave Wasteland is a long and bloody one. The story of a land where fortunes are won and lost, where survival is a battle, where the Great Bear and Bull spill blood across the sands. And the story of a courier with a lost past who won it all, in a land where outlaws rule.
1. Prologue

**Where Outlaws Rule**

War.

War never changes.

Since the dawn of human kind, when our ancestors first discovered the killing power of rock and bone, blood has been spilled in the name of everything: from God to justice to simple, psychotic rage.

The Romans waged war to gather slaves and wealth. Spain built an empire from its lust for gold and territory. Hitler shaped a battered Germany into an economic superpower.

But war never changes.

In the 21st century, war was still waged over the resources that could be acquired. Only this time, the spoils of war were also its weapons: Petroleum and Uranium. For these resources, China would invade Alaska, the US would annex Canada, and the European Commonwealth would dissolve into quarreling, bickering nation-states, bent on controlling the last remaining resources on Earth.

In the year 2077, after millennia of armed conflict, the destructive nature of man could sustain itself no longer. The world was plunged into an abyss of nuclear fire and radiation.

In two brief hours, most of the planet was reduced to cinders. But it was not, as some had predicted, the end of the world. Instead, the apocalypse was simply the prologue to another bloody chapter of human history. For man had succeeded in destroying the world.

When atomic fire consumed the earth, those who survived did so in great, underground vaults. When they opened, their inhabitants set out across ruins of the old world to build new societies, establish new villages, form new tribes.

As decades passed, what had been the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic, dedicated to old-world values of democracy and the rule of law. As the Republic grew, so did its needs. Scouts spread east, seeking territory and wealth, in the dry and merciless expanse of the Mojave Desert. They returned with tales of a city untouched by the warheads that had scorched the rest of the world, and a great wall spanning the Colorado River.

The NCR mobilized its army and set it east to occupy the Hoover Dam, and restore it to working condition. But across the Colorado, another society had arisen under a different flag. A vast army of slaves, forged in the conquest of 86 tribes: Caesar's Legion.

Four years have passed since the Republic held the Dam - just barely - against the Legion's onslaught. The Legion did not retreat. Across the river, they gathered strength. Campfires burned, training drums beat.

Through it all, the New Vegas Strip has stayed open for business under the control of its mysterious overseer, Mr. House, and his army of rehabilitated Tribals and police robots.

For a courier hired by the Mojave Express to deliver a package to the New Vegas Strip, what seemed like a simple delivery job has taken a turn… for the worse.

* * *

><p><em>It's been quite a while. I've decided to try my hand at a Fallout novelization, despite college, work, and my better judgement. A few things to say, though. Firstly, read <em>18 Karat Run: A Courier's tale_ by JRisner. He is far better a writer than I could ever hope to be. There have been many days that I hated the man, because I'd spent hours pondering an idea and putting it to paper, only to see a new chapter of his to contain that exact idea, executed far more skillfully than I could... Bastard (Joking). So any similarities between his and my stories are coincidental. So, yeah, weak first chapter, but an introduction was necessary._


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

Darkness. That was all there was. A complete lack of anything. How long had it been like this? Hours? Days? He didn't know. But then, the nothing became throbbing. A dull ache in the back of his head. An ache that sharpened with each passing moment.

The sharp taste of copper filled his mouth. He could feel the leather of gloves confining his hands, held tightly at his wrists. He could feel stone and earth pushing against his knees through denim fabric. An agonizing moan slipped from his dry throat as he began working his hands, trying to pry them apart, eliciting a groan of discontent from the leather.

"Look who's wakin' up over here." A male voice. Merciless, cold.

His eyes slid open, gaze falling on the tight wrappings around his wrists; rope, far too thick to break. He craned his head up to face his captors, eyes dazed, blurred. Three figures standing tall above him, breaking the night sky with their presence. On either side, dark. Black clothing, he couldn't tell what. But the center one – Brighter, light colored clothing, pale face, illuminated by the cherry ember of a cigarette. He struggled to focus on the man, the black, slick hair. His suit of checkered cloth, black and white squares, and his cream slacks.

The man dropped his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke, "Time to cash out." His voice was cold as well, an accent unfamiliar to the man kneeling in the dirt. The presumed leader snuffed out the cigarette with the heel of his shoe. As he reached into the folds of his jacket, a feeling of dread fell over the captive. His blood ran cold, his heart raced. He began to struggle again, his worst fears realized when he heard one of the blurred figures speak.

"Just do it already," the voice muttered, deeper, slightly more compassionate, but only by a fraction.

The leader pulled his hand away from the coat, seemingly empty, and pointed to the offender, "Maybe Khans kill a man without lookin' him in the face..." His hand retracted, fingering a small disk, "But I ain't a fink. Dig?" His attention returned to the captive, the disk, a large poker chip flashing in the moonlight, its surface emblazoned with the numbers _38_. "You've made your last delivery, Kid..." He replaced the chip in his coat. "Sorry you got mixed up in this scene."

The captive nearly breathed a sigh of relief before the hand returned with a pistol. A model the kneeling man recognized – a nine-millimeter automatic, fairly common. This one was special, though, engraved designs snaked and weaved across the silver-plated slide and frame. Fear again gripped him. Shook him at his very core. He thought about pleading, begging, but defiance growled in the back of his mind, sealing his lips. Eyes of fire boring fiercely into the leader.

He leveled that gun with the captives head, slide shining in the night. "From where you're kneeling, this must looking like an 18-karat run of bad luck. Truth is..." The captive shook his head slightly, the defiance melting into terror. He tugged at his bonds, twisting, panicking. "The game was rigged from the start."

Time slowed. He could feel everything. He watched the finger squeeze the trigger. The fire of the pistol flare from the muzzle like a raging dragon released from a brass prison.

And again, there was nothing.

* * *

><p><em>Two chapters in a day. Don't get used to that. Well you can, but disappointment is in your near future. Anyway, hopefully this chapter's a bit more... original. If you feel like a critique, please do. Also, before I go any further, I should probably warn that there will be some pretty disturbing themes, as would be expected in a lawless land full of escaped convicts. Watch out for that. So, until next time.<em>


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

A low, mechanical hum ground against his aching skull. He couldn't think. Couldn't focus on anything but the rhythm. A splitting headache shredded any thought he could hope to have. Throbbing, burning agony. Somewhere below him, a growl, and never before had he left so empty.

His eyes cracked open, ever so slowly, and he quickly squeezed them shut again, hiding from the impossibly bright light. He felt around, arms moving across the soft sheets he was laying on. A low groan slipped from his lips, hoarse and strained through his parched throat. He tried once more to open his eyes, vision falling on the source of the droning noise. His eyes slowly followed the spinning ceiling fan until he felt nauseous. Looking for escape, he propped himself up on his elbows, head swaying from dizziness.

"Ah, you're awake. How 'bout that," a kind, soft voice drawled.

Unable to speak, the man squinted at the source of the voice. His eyes roamed over the weathered face of a balding man, a white handlebar mustache perched upon his lip. The bedridden man struggled to sit up, meeting a firm, resisting hand on his shoulder, "Whoa, easy there, easy. You've been out a few days, now. Why don't you just sit a spell." The man relented, laying back down with a groan. The mustachioed man's hand went back to his side, "Name's Doc Mitchell. You're lucky Victor brought you in when he did."

The man's keen eyes searched Mitchell's face, studying him closely as he spoke. He swallowed harshly, tongue clinging to the back of his throat. His middle buckled and his body seized in a series of wracking, dry coughs. The doctor took a glass of water from the nightstand and offered it to the man, who gratefully accepted it, draining the glass in seconds. Mitchell chuckles softly, "Feelin' better?"

The man gave a soft nod, sighing contentedly and placing the glass back on the nightstand. He inched his way up on his elbows, groaning as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He turned his attention solely on the doctor before him, opening his mouth slowly, tentatively, before closing it again.

Mitchell gave a slightly disappointed frown, "Can you tell me your name?" He murmured.

The man's eyes widened slightly and he wracked his brain. After a long silence, he shook his head, "No," He murmured, his voice just barely a whisper. Fear gripped his heart; he couldn't even remember his own name. His breathing became erratic – shallow and quick. He couldn't think. He strained, grunted, willed his body to move as he pushed himself up with all his might on weak, aching legs. The room spun, and his knees buckled slightly. He was nauseous, he could feel the bile at the back of his throat, stomach churning as his hand shot out, flailing around, finding purchase on the shoulder of his savior, Mitchell. He leaned on the man for support, groaning and barely holding back what little was left in his stomach.

Mitchell gripped his shoulder tightly – having to reach up to do so, steadying him, "Whoa, now. Don't push yourself, son." He kept a firm grip on his patient. "I guess you're not gonna stay in bed anymore," He drawled thoughtfully, "Reckon I oughta let you get your bearings. Try and make your way to the living room, through there." Mitchell pointed to a doorway at the other side of the room.

The man stumbled more than a few times, exhausted by the eighth step. Slowly, the duo made their way to a couch in the sitting room of Mitchell's home. He sat wearily, slowly on the stained, cream-colored couch, every joint aching. Mitchell sat in an adjacent chair, facing his patient. He scribbled for a short while on a few scraps of paper before setting them down. He asked his patient several psychological questions, word associations, Rorschach blot tests, things of that nature. Satisfied with his patient's answers, he stood up, picking up a small metal crate from a shelf and placing it at the man's feet. "This is everything you had when Victor brought you in. Hope you don't mind, I took a look through it. Thought maybe I'd find a next of kin. No such luck, I'm afraid."

The man rummaged through the box, pulling out a thin cotton shirt, yellowed with sweat and stained with dirt and blood. He slipped it over his head, careful of his recovering skull. Next was his jeans, stiff with dried sweat and dirt, embedded in every fiber and seam of the cloth, faded from heavy use. A dusty leather belt hung in the loops of the waistband. He pulled out a dark crimson bandana and gray collared shirt, setting them beside him on the couch. At the bottom of the box, neatly organized, were his personal belongings. He picked out an old, well-used folding knife; a small silver plate set into the stag handle read _Case_. He recognized it to be a Trapper, two blades, one a clip point, and one straight, with a rounded end. He slid it into his pocket. Next was leather wallet, containing a few paper bills. He slipped that into his back pocket. He picked up a keyring, pocketing it with his knife. Next was a second bandana, the once blue fabric coated in numerous stains and spots, which found its way to his other rear pocket. A small, beaten, tarnished brass object caught his eye. He picked it up and with a flick the top flipped open. He struck the flint wheel and watched the flame dancing merrily over the brass chimney before closing the Zippo back, snuffing out the flame, and he placed it into his other hip pocket. He retrieved a weathered box of cigarettes, white and red coloration and tossed it to the couch beside his shirt.

"Nasty habit," Mitchell spoke up.

The man shrugged, "Don't remember much about it," He drawled smoothly, voice deep and powerful, yet slow. "But I figure there's plenty worse habits." Mitchell shrugged in return, but said no more.

The man went back to the box, collecting a leather pouch, packed with bottle caps – two varieties, one being Nuka Cola, and the other, Sunset Sarsaparilla. He tossed that with his shirt and reached down for another small pouch, rough muslin that, for some reason, brought to mind the image of a bull before a black background. He gave it a sniff, and recognized the scent. Whatever tobacco was in it was far fresher than that of prewar cigarettes. Whatever paper label, he knew, had long since worn away as the old tobacco pouch was repurposed time and time again. With the pouch, he also found a book of rolling papers. Both of those items were set aside. He reached for a pair of socks, slipping them on and grabbed the last remaining item in the box, a slip of paper, handwritten scrawl.

"That's a delivery order. You used to work the Mojave Express, by the looks of it," Mitchell explained.

The Courier nodded his understanding, "Reckon I did," He murmured, his voice low, humble. He unfurled the paper; it read:

"_Package is to be delivered at the north entrance to the Vegas Strip, through Freeside, to an agent of the recipient. Payment is to be returned to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency located in Primm._

_MANIFEST_

_One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, Platinum_

_CONTRACT PENALTIES_

_You, William Henderson, are an authorized agent of the Mojave Express, and contractually obligated to complete this transaction and materially responsible for any and all malfeasance or loss. Failure to deliver to the proper recipient may result in loss of any advances and bonuses,criminal charges, and/or mercenary reclamation teams. The Mojave Express is not responsible for any injury or loss of life as a result of these reclamation efforts."_

The man's eyes widened. "Henderson." His voice went low, deep. Not quite a growl, almost a purr. He hummed thoughtfully, "I reckon that's my name. William Henderson."

Mitchell gave a kind smile, "Bit of a mouthful. Mind if I call you Bill?"

The Courier gave a short nod, "I don't mind, none. Fact is, I-" He chokes on his words, silenced by an angry growl in his gut, persistent in its displeasure. Bill colored slightly and cleared his throat, "You got anything to eat, by chance, Doc?" He asks softly, scratching at his middle.

The doctor chuckled lightheartedly and patted Bill's shoulder as he stood from his chair, "Sure. If you feel up to it, why don't you walk over to the kitchen? I'll cook up something nice."

The Courier grinned and pushed himself up slowly onto his feet, throwing the collared shirt over his shoulders and slipping his arms through the long sleeves. He buttoned it down and tucked it haphazardly into his jeans, tightening the belt. The crimson bandana was then tied over his nose to the back of his neck, before he pulled it down around his neck and tucked the excess fabric into his shirt. He followed Mitchell into the kitchen, finding the walk much easier this time. Mitchell had finished constructing a large sandwich, dark bread, filled with a generous portion of unknown red meat. A percolator had been set on one of the ranges of the stove to boil. He passed the plate across the table to the Courier, "Bighorner," he informed. "Ain't no good for anything besides hides and meat."

The man began eating ravenously, devouring the large meal greedily, filling his stomach, which had stood unfed for several days. He made short work of it and grinned. The two of them sat at the table for a long while, conversing over a multitude of topics, and over coffee, once it had percolated. Mitchell told his patient that he was in little town called Goodsprings. He talked about his rescuer, the 'metal fella,' Victor. How he'd dug the Courier out of the graveyard on the top of the hill. How much of a shock it'd been to open the door in the middle of the night to see a big grinning cowboy-faced robot carrying the limp body of a man with his head nearly blown open. How it was even more of a shock that he still had a pulse.

Mitchell couldn't believe it himself when he told the Courier about the steel plate in his skull. The only reason he'd survived that night. Barely even a dent, but enough of one to send bone fragments into his frontal lobe. He'd had to go in and remove those shards of skull, but the question still remained of where he'd gotten that plate.

After a long conversation of lighter topics, the Courier stood, "I can't thank you enough, Doc."

Mitchell smiled widely, "Don't mention it." He paused for a short while, "I'd suggest a few days more bed rest, but I don't think that's an option for you, is it?"

The Courier shook his head, "No, Sir, I don't believe it is."

The doctor nodded knowingly and moved to exit the dining room, "Alright, c'mon, then." He said, leading Bill to the front entrance, who snatched his caps, papers, cigarettes, and tobacco as he passed the couch. Mitchell stopped at the door, standing by a set of metal shelves. He motioned to them, "These are yours, too," He informed.

Bill looked over the contents of the self, first at a pair of pointed boots, the leather worn, beaten, but stained dark brown. His eyes then locked onto a small pile of leather, a Sam Browne belt. He picked it up, inspecting the basketweave tooling pattern in the leather, the fine, smooth grain. He slipped it on, a holster falling at his right hip, hanging low and set on a swivel. On his left, a double-celled pouch to hold a revolver's speed-loaders. Behind his holster hung a large scabbard, massive bowie knife housed within. He took a firearm from the shelf, admiring the weapon. He loved the shape and feel of the wood grips, the shining stainless steel finish, the six-inch barrel with the words _"PYTHON 357" _inscribed in the steel. A product of a prewar company called Colt, Bill knew, though from where he learned it, he wasn't sure. He dropped the fine revolver into its worn holster, the leather molding around it like a glove.

"Never seen a six-gun quite like that before," Mitchell quipped.

The Courier shrugged, "It's something special, that much I know." He took the boots and slipped them on, the soles of those boots shaped perfectly to his feet. He looked to a mirror in confusion.

"Just figured you'd want to get a look at yourself. See if you recognize your face," Mitchell informed helpfully.

Bill nodded, taking the mirror and looking into it, studying the wrinkled, aged man that looked back at him. The square chin and soft cheekbones hidden under thick, unkempt facial hair. The weary blue eyes, surrounded in shallow, sad wrinkles. The greasy dark hair pulled back from his forehead, the beginnings of gray peppering his hair. The long, red, swollen scar that followed his hairline. He traced it slowly with his fingertip, flinching away as he made contact. "Sorry. Had to go rootin' around in your skull to pull out all the bits of bone. Hell, I'm surprised you can still talk, truth be told," Mitchell murmured apologetically.

The Courier shook his head, "Don't worry about it, Doc. You saved my life." He set the mirror down, patting the Mitchell's shoulder softly, "I won't ever be able to repay you."

The doctor laughed softly and shook his head, "No, no, you don't need to worry about that. A few more things, though..." He began. "You'll be pretty sensitive to light for a good while, so I dug around for these." He took a pair of darkly tinted sunglasses from his pocket, handing them to the Courier. "Your bag, too. It's on the floor by the door. And lastly," He knelt down and opened a small metal container, handing out a bulky looking device, "This is a Pip-boy. I grew up in one of them Vaults. Everybody got one. I don't have a need for it, but I'm sure you could put such a thing to use." He placed the heavy thing in the Courier's hand.

He shook his head. He thought about denying it, but the look in Doc's eyes – he wasn't going to leave this house without that Pip-boy. Before he slipped his left hand through the wrist-mounted device, he noticed a band of pale skin around his darkly tanned wrist, and grunted softly, thinking that at one point recently, he'd worn a watch. It seemed a safe assumption that those thugs had made off with it. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and slipped the Pip-boy on. Moments later, it clamped down, the hermetic seal engaging. He felt a sharp pain in his wrist, then another farther back, in his forearm. "What the hell's going on?" The Courier demanded, panic starting to set in.

"Relax. It's just how the old thing works. It's connecting with your nerves. Once it syncs up, you'll have readouts of all your vitals." Mitchell explained.

The Courier pursed his lips, "Well, that's helpful," he paused, "But can I get it back off?"

The older man shook his head, "Not without a code. It's in the Notes section, I believe." He held out a leather glove with a small control module mounted onto the back of it, "You'll need this, too. Hook it up to the main computer."

Bill took the glove and pulled it on, the leather forming to his hand, and he plugged the small cord into the Pip-boy. He shook his head, "I-" He paused for a moment, "I Just don't know what do say, Doc. I won't ever be able to repay what you done."

Mitchell wouldn't have it, "Don't worry about repaying me. I'm just doing my job. Now, Sunny Smiles, she can help you get back on your feet again. You'll probably find her in the Prospector's Saloon. Now go on, stretch your legs a bit."

The Courier sighed and slipped on his shades, "Thanks, Doc, really." He opened the door and squinted into the Mojave sunlight, blinding and harsh. He picked up his pack, slinging it over his shoulder, and stepped outside, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the bright, burning light. He looked around and sighed, but as he glanced at the sun, he saw the flash of a handgun, the burning powder, the muzzle flare. He saw the man in the checkered suit.

And his blood boiled.

* * *

><p><em>There we go. This'll be a pretty weapon-heavy story, I think. I like guns and knives, so that's what gets written about sometimes. I know this is a pretty slow start, but it will get better, I promise. Also, please review. It fills me with joy, among other various emotions, and I'm curious as to what people think, or even if I should continue at all. So, there you go.<em>


	4. Chapter Three

The Courier squinted against the fierce light of the Mojave sun. It worsened his headache considerably as he looked the small town over. He looked to the left, a gas station, mostly obscured by Doc's house. His eyes panned right, derelict homes and skeletal structures of broken or burned buildings, several large husks of what were once trees rooted near the cracked asphalt road that ran through the town. In the distance, a hill rose above the town, a water tower perched upon it. Goodsprings Cemetery, he'd have to make a visit up there, look around for some clue of his past, or his would-be killers. His eyes continued, spying a small building, a sign perched on the roof read Goodsprings General Store in fading black paint, another place of interest. Right beside the general store sat a slightly larger building; a patchwork of neon lights adorning the space above its entrance read Prospector's Saloon. Further right was a decrepit old truck sitting at a fork in the road. Behind it, a windmill, and further back was a water tank, sitting on iron stilts. No other buildings of interest stood out as the farmer's keen blue eyes searched the land, coming back to rest at the edge of Mitchell's home once again.

With a small grunt, the Courier slowly made his way down the hill, his right hand lightly resting on the fine grips of his Python. He gave his left shoulder a shrug, adjusting the beaten, worn canvas pack that hung by one of it's wide shoulder straps. He twisted his wrist uncomfortably, still unused to the added weight of the bulky device. Though it weighed less than he'd expected, he knew it would still take a long time before he would grow used to it. With a dismissive grunt, he cast the Pip-boy from his mind.

Along the asphalt, a hulking mass of metal came rolling, balanced on a single rubber wheel, long, flexible arms swaying for stability – each appendage extending from below wide shoulders and ending in a large, cylindrical 'hand,' with three flat claws. Set into the main body was a screen, the flickering image of a smiling cowboy, cigarette between his lips and a wide-brimmed hat atop his head. In one of his clawed hands was a dusty, worn hat, the same color and the Courier's chocolate boots. Something about that face made the Courier feel a mild craving – maybe the cigarette. He appeared to be a heavy smoker in his past life.

As Bill neared the asphalt, the robot came to a stop, teetering on his one wheel and turning to face him. "Well howdy, Pardner! Might I say you're looking fit as a fiddle!" The robot sang cheerfully in his exaggerated drawl that rivaled Bill's own. At this distance, Bill could see the Mojave dust and grime that had accumulated in every crack and crevasse the robot had, especially around the edges of the monitor. A few bullet holes peppered the steel case, the once-blue paint now faded, chipped, and coated in grime.

The Courier grinned, "I reckon you're Victor, huh? Never seen a robot like you before."

The face on Victor's screen seemed to grin wider, "I'm a Securitron, RobCo security model 2060-B. You see any'a my brothers, tell 'em Victor says howdy."

Bill gave a nod and started walking, Victor rolling along beside him, "So, how'd you find me?" He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, striking it with his brass Zippo before taking a drag and redepositing the little treasure.

"I was out for a walk that night when I heard a commotion up that the ol' bone orchard. Looked like a couple'a bad eggs, so I kept quiet." Victor began, "Once they'd wandered off, I ran up to check if you was still kickin'. Turns out, you was, so dug you up and hauled you down to the Doc right quick."

The Courier gave a grunt, "You know anything about those men?" He mumbled around the cigarette, smoke wafting from his mouth with every word.

The robot's arms wriggled in some strange approximation of a shrug, "Can't say as I do, sorry to say. Some o' the others in town might know more. You'd prob'ly do well to ask around." It murmured apologetically.

Bill hummed thoughtfully, "Yeah," He gave a pause, "Yeah, I think I will." He gave a wave before quickening his pace, "I 'preciate it, Victor. I'll be seein' you 'round sometime."

"Now, hold on, Pardner, I can't let you run off without your hat, now can I?" The robot matched the Couriers speed, offering the brown felt hat to him once he'd come to a stop before the saloon.

A thoughtful frown stretched across the Courier's face, pinching the crown and taking the hat from the robot's three-pronged hand. He softly ran his thumb over the soft, malleable fur felt, then the scaly hatband wrapped around the base of the crown, _diamondback_ fluttered through the Courier's thoughts, a whisper in his mind. For a reason he couldn't explain, his heart clenched; his thoughts, for just a moment, were consumed by the snakeskin hatband, and a deep sadness tore harshly at his soul, his cigarette fell from his lips to the dust. He shook his head in an attempt to cast the feeling from his mind, though mostly succeeding in worsening his headache. He faked a smile and gave a quick nod, "Thank you, Victor."

The robot lifted a hand, his screen flickering for a moment and he spoke, voice taking on a note of concern, "Hey, you alright, Pardner?"

Bill grimaced as he eased the beaten hat over his scar and tipping it, "Yeah, I'm fine. See you 'round." He turned and walked, stepping onto the porch of the saloon.

After a beat, Victor gave a mechanical wave, "Happy trails!" He called before turning and rolling along.

He gave a wave behind him before turning his attention to a heavily wrinkled black man, the thick, callused fingers of his right hand buried in his bushy, white beard, a straw hat perched upon his head. "Mornin'," The old man greeted in a deep bass, nodding his greeting from the rocking chair he was sitting in.

Bill stopped and gave a nod in return, "Mornin'," He drawled back.

"What can Easy Pete do for you?"

The thought of asking about his attackers came to mind, but in the back of his head, a wised, hard voice scratched at his psyche, telling him news would spread if he simply asked anyone in passing. Instead, he shook his head, "Not much at the moment, I reckon."

Pete leaned back in his chair, humming in thought, "Alright. Later, then."

Bill nodded, albeit a bit hesitantly, "Later, Pete."

The Courier pushed the door of the saloon open, greeted with the thick smell of smoke and gut-rot whiskey, as well as ferocious growling, barking, and snapping of teeth. Instinctively, his hand found the grips of his revolver, resting there cautiously.

"Cheyenne, stay." A soft voice called out, and the growling ceased. "Don't worry, she won't bite unless I tell her to." A kind smile greeted the Courier and his hand moved on his Python, resting a bit more casually. The fiery crimson hair, pulled into a messy bun caught his attention first; then, her wild eyes. She was young, no more that twenty. On her shoulder, a small rifle was slung, left hand resting on the leather strap. She was small; short, with a petite frame, her body clad in a set of leather clothing, thickened in some key places – armor. At her side, a dog stood – some sort of husky mutt.

Suddenly self-conscious, the Courier scratched disapprovingly at his thick beard before opening his mouth, "You must be Sunny. Doc said you might be able to help me a bit," He drawled.

Sunny pursed her lips and gave a nod, "Sure, I suppose I can." She took a few steps and extended her hand, "You already know my name." She smiled.

The Courier caught her off guard, most of her small hand dissapearing his his callused, meaty one, though only her fingers, in a firm, gentle grip, thumb resting on her knuckles. He smiled what was surely a charming smile underneath all that hair. "I reckon I'm Bill Henderson," He said.

"Nice to meet you." She gestured for him to follow and turned, walking through the bar to the door, collecting a rifle identical to her own as she passed through, "C'mon. We oughta see your shooting, first. Basics, you know?"

They made their way behind the bar, a line of bottles standing in a neat little row on a fence beam. She handed him the rifle and three spare magazines. A bolt-action .22 plinking rifle – _Savage Arms 93_ stamped on the worn, lightly pitted chamber. The wood stock was smooth, worn down heavily from years and years of use and abuse. "You got ten rounds in that clip." Sunny informed him. With a nod, he chambered a round and brought the rifle to his shoulder. He set the sights on one of the bottles and squeezed the trigger, the rifle cracked as the bullet missed it's mark.

With a soft growl, he muttered, "Sights are off." Sunny rolled her eyes as he cycled the bolt, adjusting and compensating for the sights. He pulled the trigger again, and once more, he missed. Without skipping a beat, his right hand left the rifle, drawing his Python like lightening and with a boom, the bottle shattered. Twice more, in quick succession, thunder boomed and bottles burst. The barrel of his revolver smoked and he flicked his wrist, the cylinder fell from the frame. Thumb on the unfired rounds, he tilted his gun, catching and pocketing the spent brass. He felt his pockets for more magnum rounds, but, finding none, closed the cylinder, ensuring the next chamber was loaded before holstering it again.

Sunny's face changed, a thoughtful frown on her face, "Huh. Guess those sights really are off. Hell of a shot with that magnum, though. Scary, almost." She gave a soft chuckle.

Bill nodded, his mouth running away before he realized what he was saying, "The Colt Python is the top of the line, where revolvers are concerned. The double action is feather-light. Heavy frame and barrel make for easy followup shots." He began fiddling with the sight on the little rifle, trying desperately to hide his own surprise.

Sunny cocked an eyebrow, "Wow. You must be fond of it, then."

Bill brought the rifle to his shoulder and cycled the bolt again. With the pull of the trigger, the sharp crack was accompanied by shattering glass and he grinned, "Of course. A man ain't no count without a magnum." He gave her a wink.

She folded her arms and smiled, "Then maybe you and your magnum can come help me clear out some geckos from the town's watering hole."

With a grin and a nod, he spoke. "Lead the way." And they were off.

They came to a stop, hiding behind a large boulder. Sunny turned to the Courier, "Hear that up on the ridge?" She whispered. He nodded, a frown of seriousness drawn on his face. He chambered a new round. "Try and get the drop on 'em."

He crept around the boulder until he saw them, three huge lizards, meandering around the well on their hind legs. They looked close to three feet tall. He took careful aim and fired, and the gecko collapsed, a pool of blood spreading around its head. The other two came running surprisingly fast, hissing and snapping their jaws. Another crack and the second gecko fell. By the time he had loaded the rifle, the gecko was too close to aim, so he did what first came to mind, ramming the muzzle of his gun into the gecko's open maw, hoisting it into the air, and pulling the trigger, fragments of brain, skull, and scale bursting from the top of it's head. He pulled the rifle out of the bloody mess and looked to Sunny, "That all?"

She smiled, "Nice work, two more to clear out, if you're interested."

Bill grinned, "And let the pretty lady have all the fun? I don't think so."

Sunny rolled her eyes, "C'mon, then. The next one's up ahead."

When they reached the second well, five of the geckos were prowling around it. The Courier motioned her to keep quiet and readied his rifle, nodding her to do the same. He pulled the trigger and she followed suit. Before they had killed the last one, a scream echoed over the wastes. Bill pushed himself up, sprinting, stopping only to punt the last gecko with enough force to send it flying into a rock face, at which point, Cheyenne fell upon it, tearing at its throat. Sunny kept on his heels, running to the screaming until they saw a blonde woman in a dress, a burlap sack strung across her chest from her shoulder cornered against a rock wall, surrounded by another five geckos. She held them at bay with a large cleaver until one of them latched viciously on her arm and she screamed, dropping the blade as blood ran from the gecko's mouth.

Thunder boomed, The Courier's Python smoking as he lined up another shot, and a third before he sprinted. The crack of Sunny's rifle echoed, and a gecko fell. Once he finally reached her, he kicked the last gecko in its abdomen and stomped it's head hard enough to crush its skull. He was panting, and turned around to look at her, left hand clutching her arm, "Thank you so much. I wouldn't have made it out if you hadn't come when you did. I came to draw some water, but you're welcome to it."

She offered the small sack of bottles, but he waved his hand dismissively. "I'll be fine. Go see the Doc about that bite."

She nodded, thanking him and Sunny again before making off toward town. "Nice work. Even got exciting near the end." Sunny smiled, then turned, "C'mon, let's get back to the bar. Trudy's kinda the town mom, and she likes to meet any newcomers. She'd be cross if I didn't send you in."

"Alright," The Courier conceded, swinging the cylinder of his revolver out of its frame and pocketing the spent brass before retrieving a speed-loader from the case at his left hip and neatly loading the six fresh magnum rounds. He snapped the Python closed and holstered it before fishing a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and taking a drag. "Let's get a move on, then."

They'd walked into the end of an argument when they pushed through the doors of the saloon. The Courier brought a finger to his lips and took a few steps forward, palm resting on his revolver. The aggressor was facing away from him, a thick, padded vest encapsulating his torso, pulled over a blue button-down. He leaned forward, over a woman, looking to be in her forties. "I'm done playing nice," The man growled, "You give us Ringo, or I'm gettin' my boys and we're fuckin' burning this place to the ground." The back of his shaven, dark head beaded with sweat.

The woman folded her arms, "I'll keep that in mind," She droned almost sarcastically, "Now, if you're not gonna buy somethin', get out."

He turned, scowling, "Stupid bitch," He muttered beneath his breath. He pushed passed the Courier, stopping to look up slightly at him, "Watch where the fuck you're goin'."

The taller man cocked an eyebrow, "You sure you wanna take that tone, boy?" His voice deepened, both in pitch and accent, as well as adopting a light growl. His hand tightened on the grip of his revolver.

The younger man grabbed his own weapon, "The fuck did you just say to me? Do you know who the fuck I am?" He yelled, tendons and veins popping against the surface of his dark skin. The moment he grabbed his pistol, Sunny had the rifle to her shoulder. The Courier gave her a look and turned his attention back to the aggressor. He drew his pistol from the pocket of his trousers, a Colt Single-Action Army – heavily worn, beaten. He shoved the gun into the taller man's chest. Bill's eyes widened slightly and he looked down, smiling condescendingly, "Single-action. Not bad, cowboy." He wretched the revolver from the man's hand by the barrel, "That is, when you remember to cock it."

Now disarmed, the shorter man grew livid, snarling. He threw a sidelong punch, his forearm meeting the Courier's own in a block. That very arm shot forward, gripping his neck and slamming him into the door frame, leaning in close as the dark-skinned man had done just moments before. "You're gonna listen, yeah?" The Courier growled.

"Fuck you," The stranger spat, struggling beneath Bill's fingers, which only tightened in return.

The Courier snarled, "This town, these people," He paused, looking to Sunny, her rifle still at the ready, "Are under my protection. And what I won't tolerate is a candy-ass little shit threatening these people. Now, what you're going to do now is walk out that door." Bill squeezed the man's neck even tighter, nearly strangling him, relishing the animalistic terror in his eyes as his hands clawed desperately at his arm, "You're gonna walk out that door and keep walking, because if I see you again, boy, I'll put you in the dirt." He gave a sadistic smile, digging the single-action revolver into his stomach, "And believe me, I won't have your problem." His fingers loosened and guided him to the door, pushing him.

The man rubbed his neck painfully, "I'll remember this, fuckface. You watch your ass," He growled, backpedaling all the same.

Weary of this man, the Courier drew the hammer back on the captured revolver, firing at his feet. He emptied the cylinder as the man screamed obscenities and ran down the road as fast as his legs could carry him. With a sigh, he twirled the gun around, gripping it by the smoking barrel and offering it to Sunny, "Sidearm never hurt, huh?" He gave a soft, tired smile, and she took it, eyes wide, a look of astonishment painted across her face. He sat at the bar, the tired stool groaning slightly beneath him as he removed the shades from his face and pinched the bridged of his nose before rubbing his forehead, dropping the canvas pack at his feet. His head throbbed and his limbs ached as the adrenal rush subsided, but he simply kept up his slightly weary demeanor.

He looked up to see the woman's face smiling at him approvingly, "That deserves a free drink and a discount, I'd say. I've never seen Cobb run that fast."

The Courier chuckled softly, deciding to take her up on the offer, "A whiskey'll do me, I believe."

She took a shot glass and a flask-shaped bottle from the shelf and set it in front of him, "Keep the bottle. I'm Trudy, by the way."

He gave a nod, introducing himself and picking up the bottle, inspecting it and the amber liquor, _Olde Royale_, the label read. He poured a shot and downed it, sighing as the warmth began to spread to his limbs, He re-corked the bottle and set the glass aside, "Cobb, huh?"

"Yeah," She replied, "Joe Cobb. About a week ago, some trader, Ringo, rolls into town. Says he survived an attack, needed somewhere to hide. We thought he was just in shock, so we gave him a place to stay." She paused, folding her arms, "Never thought someone'd come looking for him. Not even Powder Gangers"

The Courier hummed softly in thought, "Where's Ringo, now? I'd like to have a talk with him."

"He's holed up in the old gas station," Sunny interjected, coming to her senses. Trudy shot her a glance and a little smile, turning to the glasses on the shelves behind the bar, cleaning one with a rag.

The Courier turned his attention to the short girl, "So, if I was to say I wanted to help 'im, and-"  
>"Say no more," She interrupted him, "I'm on board."<p>

Bill gave a thoughtful hum, rubbing his thickly bearded chin, "Alright. Go on ahead and let him know he's got friends. I need to chat with Trudy for a bit longer." At the mention of her name, Trudy turned again to face the two.

Sunny gave a nod and stood, "Alright. See you there." With that, she made her way out of the bar, leaving the two of them alone.

Trudy crossed her arms, "Now I guess you're gonna try and get me in on this mess, right?" She droned sardonically, a reserved smirk tugging at her lips.

The Courier leaned on the bar, "Not quite," He began, attention occupied with his fingers, thick and heavily callused, but something caught his eye, a band of pale flesh on his left ring finger stood out against the rest of his darkly tanned skin. He let out a small sigh, thinking over his choice of words before looking up again to the bartender waiting patiently. He leaned forward a bit, "I was attacked a few nights ago."

Her eyes widened in surprise, "That was you? Mitchell said you got hurt pretty bad. The way he talked, I'm surprised you can still walk. Guess it wasn't so bad, the way you handled Cobb."

Bill gave a smile, chuckling softly, "No," He murmured, "It's about as bad as he said, I believe. I should be dead right now. Buried up on that hill." He gave a long pause and took a deep breath and dug the pack of cigarettes from his shirt, finding it empty. Trudy started to reach under the bar for a fresh pack before he dug out the tobacco pouch and the book of papers from his pocket with a soft grunt. She watched his practiced hands with intrigue as he measured out the tobacco and rolled it tightly between his forefingers and thumbs, dragging his tongue across the paper and rolling it the rest of the way before placing it between his lips and digging his brass Zippo from his pocket, lighting the cigarette. He took a long drag and let it out, noticing the stronger and more pleasant flavor. Trudy set an ashtray by him and he muttered a thanks, taking another drag and flicking the ash into the little dish.

Finally, the Courier spoke again, "But I'm not. And I wanna know where I can find that sumbitch." His voice took on that gravely tone as he spoke, a sneer twisting his lip, teeth grinding at his cigarette.

Trudy frowned, "I can't tell you much, other than they're a bunch of freeloaders that expected a few rounds on the house. I got 'em to pay, though. One of the Khans knocked my radio to the floor 'by accident.' Hasn't been working ever since." She shot a glance to a radio behind her, the wood paneling cracked across its length.

"Did they say where they was goin'?" The Courier asked wearily, flicking ash into the tray beside him.

"They were arguing about it, but the guy in the checkered coat kept shushing 'em. By the sound of it, they came south through Quarry Junction. Can't say I blame 'em for wanting to find a different route."

Bill knit his brow, "Why'd you say that?"

Trudy rested her palm on the bar, leaning on it, "That whole stretch of I-15 is packed with things that just get mad if you shoot 'em. Traders keep as far as they can from that area."

He gave a thoughtful nod and hummed softly, "Good to know. So where'd they go instead?"

"I couldn't tell, but the leader kept talking about the Strip. You wanna get there and avoid the 15, you'd have to head east, take 93 up," She said.

The Courier took a last draw from his cigarette and pinched out the ember before standing with a grunt, "I 'preciate it, Trudy. I could take a look at that radio, if you like."

She gave a wide smile, "If you think you can. I'd be happy to pay you."

Bill made his way behind the bar, "You've already done plenty, ma'am; no charge." He inspected the radio for a moment before pulling it open. Within a few moment, he had it working again, "Just a few loose wires and a vacuum tube ," He said with a smile, returning to the stool to grab his canvas pack, slinging it over his shoulder beside the varmint rifle.

Trudy reached under the bar, setting a carton of cigarettes on the beaten wood surface, "Thanks. Take this, at least. Can't let you leave empty-handed."

The Courier gave a toothy grin, digging a pack from the box and shoving it into his shirt pocket, "This'll do, thanks. Wouldn't be right to take more after all you done." He slipped the shades over his eyes and grabbed the whiskey bottle.

Trudy's lips twisted into a disappointed ball, but shrugged and set the carton back under the bar. "Well, I hope you find who you're looking for, Bill. Best of luck."

He gave a soft laugh, "Yeah, I do too. Thank you, ma'am." And with that, he left the saloon, making his way to the fuel station.

When he finally reached the station and pulled open the door, he was met with a far too familiar sight, the muzzle of a 9mm automatic pistol, a Browning Hi-Power – the same model that the man in the checkered coat had been armed with, though this one was blued steel, lightly pitted with rust. The Courier snarled and locked eyes with those of the man behind the gun.

"That's close enough," The stranger spoke, "Who are you, and-"

Bill's hand went to his Python, ready to draw, before Sunny broke in, "Put the gun down, Ringo," She warned. He turned his attention to her, who had pushed herself from the counter she was leaning against, and he lowered the pistol.

He was about to speak, before the Courier took a step forward, glaring down at the shorter man, "Don't point that at me again, son," He growled softly, "I'll lay you out, next time."

Ringo paled slightly and stowed his pistol in the messenger bag hanging at his side, "Uh, sorry. You just surprised me." He gave a grin, regaining his original color, "Sunny told me you had Cobb pissin' his pants. Now I believe her."

The Courier's face of stone softened and he have a soft laugh, but after a moment, he grew more serious, "I may have brought Hell to these people, with what I done. Get the feeling Cobb's gonna come back with numbers."

"You can't worry about that now, what's done is done," Sunny pointed out, "What we need to do now is focus on a fighting force." She took a look around the room with a sheepish smile, "And we don't really have one right now."

Bill grunted softly, "Yeah, you're right." He softly rubbed his thickly bearded chin, "Any suggestions for recruits?"

"Well," She began, "A lot of people look up to Trudy. I could try to convince her to join, and a good few would fall in line."

"And I could get a few sets of armor from Chet at the General Store," Ringo added.

The Courier pursed his lips and grunted as he turned his attention to Ringo, "I don't think that's a good idea. Stay here." When he started to protest, Bill held up a hand, voice raised slightly, "Cobb is gonna come for you or me first. Stay hidden and he might think twice."

Ringo thought for a moment, "Fine. I'll just wait for you two, I guess." He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

Bill gave a nod, "Good man. Anything else?" He asked, eyes on Sunny.

"We could use some medicine. And Easy Pete's still got some dynamite stashed away," She said.

The Courier moved to the door, pulling it open and letting the harsh sunlight into the dark, moldy room. "Ought not waste time, then. Hang tight, Ringo." Sunny made her way to the door as Ringo gave a sarcastic reply. Bill closed the door behind him, "Go talk to Trudy and some people around town. I'll see about supplies. I don't think we have much time," He said as the two walked down the shattered, sun-baked asphalt.

"Right," Sunny replied with a nod, and they parted ways, the young woman walking down the hill toward the bar, and Bill toward his savior's home.

After a few quick raps of his door, the balding doctor answered, wrinkled eyes heavy with age, "Oh. I'd hoped you wouldn't need to come back so soon. What can I do for you?" The man smiled.

Bill took a breath, long and deep, "We've got trouble coming our way, Doc," he spoke just a bit frantically.

Mitchell's face fell, "No matter where I go, people just can't seem to leave each other alone," He murmured through a sigh. He pulled open the door and urged Bill inside, "I'm no good in a fight, on account of my bum leg, but I do have some morphine you can use if someone catches a bullet." He led Bill down a hallway.

The Courier spoke up, "I been wonderin'," He began, "How'm I up an' about so soon if you had to crack my head open?"

Mitchell kept walking, speaking nonchalantly, "Oh, I had to use the last of my hydra on you, so try not to get killed again."

Bill knit his brow, "Hydra?" He inquired.

"It's a drug the Legion cooked up. It speeds up the bone healing process quite a bit." Mitchell replied as they entered the room the Courier had awoken in.

"Legion," He murmured softly, a twinge of pain in his skull. He knew that name from somewhere.

Mitchell gave a nod as he opened a cabinet, packed with various brown and white packages, yellowing with age. "A group on the other side of the river. They're nothing more than thugs and killers." As Mitchell spoke, he dug out a few small cardboard boxes and syrette tubes. He placed them in the Bill's hands, "Bandages and morphine." He gestured to the small metal tubes, crimped on one end, a capped needle protruding from the other, "You know how to use these?"

For some reason, the Courier nodded, though he was unsure why. He decided to write it off to his lost past and pocketed the morphine and bandages. "I 'preciate it, Doc. I'll make sure none o' these boys get killed." He smiled, shook Mitchell's hand firmly, and turned to leave.

"Be safe out there," He called to Bill.

Bill opened the door and waved, "Sure will, Doc. Stay safe, yourself." And with that, he closed the door behind him and walked down the hill toward the store.

As he walked inside, his eyes fell upon the dozens of shelves stocked with various goods and clothing, some light armors, though food seemed to be missing from the inventory. Bill approached the front counter, around a pair of destroyed, glass-topped freezers. A young, lightly bearded, dark-haired man dressed in a pair of overalls and a stained shirt greeted him from a back room, emerging from the darkness and leaned against the counter on his palms. This was Chet, it seemed. "What can I get you? Maybe a can for that little varmint gun?" He offered kindly.

Bill looked over some of the things under the counter, spying a .22 pistol, that appeared to be fitted with an impressive bull barrel. He pointed to it, "How much for the Ruger?"

"Oh that?" The store owner answered, "That's a nice piece. Silenced. I got some subsonic ammo if you wanna go real quiet with it." As he spoke, he set an aged box of rounds on the counter. "A hundred rounds and the gun for fifty caps."

The Courier frowned and hummed, "Automatics don't do to good with silencers. What'd you say about the can for my rifle?"

"Yeah, yeah," Chet said quickly, "It'd fit perfect." He turned and rummaged through a small steel crate in the back room before returning with a long, wide cylinder in one hand, and a large rifle scope in the other. "Tell you what: A hundred-fifty caps, and you get the scope, can, and ammo. How's that?"

Bill pressed his tongue into his cheek and hummed, "I'll give you a hunnerd," He countered, digging the wallet from his pocket.

Chet simply shook his head, "I can't do that. I can go one-twenty-five, but that's it. This is a night-scope, friend. Still works."

The Courier shrugged, "I reckon that's fair," He muttered, digging a few bills from his wallet, each bill bearing the face of a person he didn't recognize. He offered three bills, coming up to the settled price and set them on the counter, but Chet shook his head again.

"NCR money don't go as far as it used to." He placed a finger on the highest bill, a hundred, "I need three of these and four fives."

Bill leaned in with a sneer, "You tryin'a fuck me, son?"He growled.

Chet lifted his hands, "No sir, I ain't. That's just the way it is. Economy in the NCR is falling, get me? But you can keep the fives. Just three-hundred dollars."

The Courier growled and took back two of the bills and two more identical slips of paper by the first, "There. Now," He began, collecting his items, "I'm pullin' a militia together to fight the Powder Gangers an'-"

Chet cut him off, "Whoa, whoa, I never agreed to that. You've got yourself a thousand-cap investment. I got a business to run."

Bill cocked an eyebrow, "If the Gang takes over town, you ain't gonna have a store no more. You'll be a quartermaster," He leaned in and held up a finger, "If you're _lucky,_" He added, then paused and shrugged, "Hell, they might shoot you in the gut, take everything you got, and burn what's left."

The young man's face paled and he tugged at the sweat-stained collar of his shirt, "Alright, alright," He paused, "You made your point. You'll get your armor." Chet's eyes shot from left to right, "But I'll be here during the fighting. Gotta protect my store, right?"

Bill shoved the suppressor into his back pocket, "If you say so. I 'preciate it, all the same." He turned to leave, the leather of his boot soles thudding against the wood floor.

"Don't hesitate to buy anything else while you're around," Chet called.

The Courier nodded, "Will do." And without a second glance, walked into the stifling heat of the Mojave. He paused, standing on the porch, before kneeling down and slinging off his pack and rifle.

The pack was nothing special, a simple khaki-colored canvas bag with two wide shoulder-straps of webbing and a few random buckles and straps. He unfastened the two buckles that held the outer flap in place and pulled away two inner ears that protected the stored goods, mostly consisting of a few boxes of ammunition and various burlap or muslin sacks of dry goods, as well as a very scarce selection of basic cooking supplies.

He stuffed the scope in the pack and refastened it all before slinging it back onto his shoulders. He looked his suppressor, expecting that he'd have to jury-rig a way to mount it onto his rifle, but was surprised to find the muzzle to be threaded. He simply screwed the steel cylinder on and slung it beside his pack.

He stepped off the porch, each step kicking up a small cloud of parched, sun-baked earth as he made his way to the old man, still sitting in his chair, "What'cha say, Pete?" Bill greeted.

"Hey there," He replied, sitting up a bit in his chair.

Bill leaned against the wall, "I hear you got a stash o' dynamite somewheres. They'd be a big he'p against the Powder Gang."

Pete didn't even blink, "Nope," He spoke with a shake of the head. "Too dangerous. Liable to kill y'allselves with it."

The Courier frowned, "But I bet you know how to handle it, yeah?" He offered

"Yup," Pete replied bluntly.

Bill pushed away from the wall and stood straight, "Got blasting caps? Machine for it?"

With a nod, Pete narrowed his eyes, "You seem to know a thing 'er two, son. You're right, I got those."

The Courier grinned, "I'll leave the handling to you, then. Bury a few bundles on either side of the road. That's were they'll come in. That bush looks like a good spot." He pointed to a dead, dried shrub near the road several yards from the closest building. "Run a line up to the gas station. That sound good?"

The old man sat for a long moment, pondering, before giving a shallow nod, "I guess that's that. You'll have the box in an hour." With that, he stood wearily, joints creaking.

Bill grinned and offered a hand, "Thank you, sir. This'll be a huge help." He shook Pete's hand firmly and tipped his hat as he turned and headed down the road toward the gas station. He pushed open the door and leaned against the wall to watch Ringo and Sunny in the middle of a game of cards, Cheyenne lazing underneath her chair.

Sunny stood, laying her cards on the table, her new revolver tucked into her belt, "How'd it go?"

The Courier grinned, tossing the syrettes and bandages on the table before shrugging his rifle and pack off, leaning the gun against the wall "Got those, and Chet's givin' armor out. Pete's settin a trap on the road, too. How'd it go with Trudy?" Bill popped the snap that kept his holster's swivel stationary and sat in a chair before lighting a cigarette, drawing gratefully before letting it slowly out.

Sunny gave a smile of her own, "Half the town's in. How long do you think we have?"

Ringo spoke up, "I don't give 'em more than a day."

Bill gave a nod and opened his pack, retrieving the scope he bought earlier, "Here," He offered to Sunny, "Mount this on your rifle an' keep watch. When you see 'em, give us a shout an' hang back. Hit 'em from a distance while we move in."

With a nod, Sunny took the scope and retrieved her rifle, starting the process of mounting the scope. She locked eyes with him, "What'll you do?"

The Courier flicked his ash onto the floor and sighed, rubbing his forehead, "I'm beat all to hell, truth be told. I'm gonna try an' catch a nap, if that's alright with you."

Sunny set her rifle aside and dug through a large sack beside her, "Eat first," She said, tossing an old box of cereal and an apple to him, "You'll need that too."

Bill frowned and realized just how hungry he was, and started on his meal of centuries-old Sugar Bombs cereal and the apple. "Thanks," He muttered through stale preservatives and fruit flesh.

Sunny shook her head, "Not a problem." After a while of sitting quietly, she spoke. "I'll go keep watch." She stood and left, Cheyenne on her heels.

Bill tossed the box to the floor, the core of his apple already being worked on. "You get some rest, too, Ringo. Ain't no use to us tar'd." He pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned back.

The younger man sat back down, collecting his deck, "I think I'll be alright."

With a dismissive shrug, the Courier drifted to sleep, his snores nearly rattling the foundation. There was nothing left to do but wait.

* * *

><p><em>Really, really long chapter. Didn't want a five-chapter buildup to the fight. Not really much to say, I reckon. Hope you enjoyed it.<em>


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